


close your eyes & i’ll kiss you

by royalworldtraveler



Series: Boy Next Door [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crush at First Sight, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Modern Era, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, boy next door, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 01:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalworldtraveler/pseuds/royalworldtraveler
Summary: Steve glances out his window.A boy, about his age, is pulling a t-shirt off. Probably not the smartest idea, with his window right open, but Steve realizes that he’s the guy watching him, so...





	close your eyes & i’ll kiss you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notlucy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/gifts), [mambo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/gifts).



“Steve.”

 

“Yeah, pops?”

 

“Take care’o your ma for me, okay, son?”

 

*

 

“Steve!”

 

“No,” he groans, muffled underneath heaps of blankets and pillows. “Five more minutes, ma, please.”

 

“Steve, do you know what day it is?”

 

He pokes his head out of his little mound. “What day is it?”

 

Sarah Rogers plops onto the bed and reaches under his sheets to tickle his little feet, sending him into a fit of squirms and giggles. “It’s America’s birthday, Steve!”

 

He’s laughing for a different reason now. “It’s _my_ birthday, ma!”

 

July 4th, 1998, he recites in his head. July 4th, 2008, now! His birthday!

 

“I’m ten!”

 

“You’re ten!”

 

Steve loves his birthday. Every single year, without fail, his mom gets him a red velvet cupcake from the bakery down the street—the best bakery in all of Brooklyn, his ma says—and Steve believes it, because that cupcake is the _best_  cupcake, better than the cupcakes he gets at school on special days, like Halloween or Valentine’s Day. Cupcake days make everyone at school so unbelievably happy, so much so that the bullies in his class don’t beat him up after school.

 

Steve never gets a big cake or big presents for his birthday. Money has been kind of tight since his pops left for the war. This doesn’t matter, though, because he gets his ma and a cupcake, and that’s enough.

 

*

 

It’s just after 6 in the evening, and Steve’s licking the cream cheese frosting off his fingers when the phone rings. Sarah excuses herself with a kiss to her son’s temple.

 

“That’s probably your daddy, Steve,” she exclaims, and Steve’s face splits into that perfect-toothed, dimpled smile, the one he gets from his mom. His dad calls every year for Steve’s birthday. Well, he calls whenever he can anyway, and he writes tons of letters, too, but his birthday calls are the best calls because his dad sings.

 

“Hello?”

 

A pause. His mom’s smile falls. “Yes, this is she.”

 

When Sarah cries, Steve cries, and Sarah’s crying a lot.

 

*

 

“Steve?”

 

“Yep, I’m on it.” He rushes down the stairs—much easier down than up—and carries the last few boxes into the elevator. They’ve been in the new building for ten minutes, and Steve’s already terrified of that creaky elevator, but he obviously can’t take the stairs up six flights.

 

“That’s the last of ‘em,” his mom says, laced with pride.

 

Steve’s seventeen now, 5’4”, and one hundred and five pounds. He can handle taking a few boxes up an elevator, and they don’t even have that much stuff. He tells his mom as much, but she ruffles his hair and kisses his cheek anyway. Steve says he’s too old for babying, but he doesn’t actually care. He loves his mom more than anything.

 

*

 

Steve pins the last sketch onto his new bedroom’s wall and takes a few steps back.

 

Perfect.

 

He doesn’t have any posters. No half-naked models or flashy cars, like a lot of boys his age, but he has his sketches. Big and small, old and new, some better than others. Ever since Steve started showing strong interest in art, his mom’s bought him as many supplies as she can. Crayons, paper—eleventh birthday. Sketchbook, charcoal set—thirteenth.

 

His favorites are up on his wall now.

 

 _Central park at sunset. Circus monkey. His ma on her birthday,_  and—

 

Steve glances out his window.

 

A boy, about his age, is pulling a t-shirt off. Probably not the smartest idea, with his window right open, but Steve realizes that _he’s_ the guy watching him, so...

 

He’s about to turn away (he is!) but the boy stretches his arms above his head and runs his hands through his messy brown hair, and Steve just can’t bring himself to look away from his back muscles. The boy turns around, and—

 

His eyes are so _blue._ One would think that it’s impossible to catch a person’s eye color from the distance between them, and Steve would agree, but the guy’s eyes are this steely gray-blue that are so bright that he can. Also, the street is pretty narrow. So narrow that Steve can see just how sharp his jawline is, and his cheekbones, and his Roman nose, and _wow_ , the guy is beyond attractive. He’s Steve’s wet dream, and, oh, he’s looking right back at him.

 

Steve should definitely have looked away by now, but it’s far too late. His face is heating up, and he curses himself for his stupid pale Irish heritage for completely outing him.

 

The boy looks at him for a moment before shooting him the prettiest smile. The kind that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up in the most adorable way.

 

Steve smiles shyly and forces himself to leave his perch in front of the window.

 

*

 

He absolutely does _not_ think of the mysterious boy across the street that night.

 

*

 

The next morning, Steve casually—casual! Nonchalant!—rushes out of bed to his window and rolls the blinds up. The boy across the street is sitting in front of his own window, fiddling with what looks like a typewriter, one that definitely wasn’t there yesterday.

 

So he’s a writer. That’s...so cool. _So_  cool. What does he write? Sci-fi shorts? Psychological thrillers? Romance novels?

 

Steve leans against the wall.

 

Does he write about Steve? Surely not, but what a thought: waking up next to the boy across the street as he recites a sonnet written especially for him.

 

 _Wow_ , okay, weirdo. But, he reasons, he’s allowed to dream.

 

He lets himself look out the window, and finds mystery boy with the end of a yellow #2 pencil between his teeth. Steve feels himself go weak in the knees, and it’s not because of his bad joints. The boy scribbles something down before pausing for a second, and—

 

looks right at Steve.

 

Steve walks back to his bed at once.

 

*

 

A week later, at dinner, his mom asks him why he’s so quiet.

 

Steve’s picking at his potatoes. “No reason.”

 

Sarah raises an eyebrow.

 

“Okay, there’s a reason.” He’s never been good at keeping things from his mother. Not that there’s anything to keep from her. He’s just...never talked about crushes. Mainly because he hasn’t _had_  a crush this desperate, which is odd, because he’s seventeen, but no one’s caught his attention like this boy has.

 

“Shoot,” his ma says, setting her silverware down to give him her full attention.

 

“So,” he begins. Chokes.

 

Steve knows that she won’t judge him, of course she won’t, and yet—

 

Sarah rests her hand on his. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” she says, offering the sweetest of smiles.

 

His ma really is the best.

 

“There’s this boy—“

 

“Oh!” She interrupts, entirely too excited.

 

“Ma, don’t make it a big deal,” he chides, but he’s smiling now, too.

 

“Sorry! Sorry, go on.”

 

“The boy across the street.”

 

“The boy across the street?”

 

“Our windows are right across from each other.”

 

Sarah smiles so incredibly wide. “That’s lovely, sweetie!”

 

“I don’t, like—I don’t even know his name, but he’s...really pretty. And he’s a writer, I think. He has a typewriter. One of those old-timey ones. It’s so cool.” He’s rambling now.

 

His mom bites her bottom lip. “I used to write, you know.”

 

“What? I didn’t know that.”

 

“That’s because I never told you,” she replies. Steve recognizes the look that dawns on her face; it’s the one she gets when his dad comes up.

 

“What did you write about?” he asks, but he has a guess.

 

She smiles. It’s a sad one. “Your father.”

 

Steve squeezes her hand.

 

“When we met in high school—God, I was so in love with him. Big, strong football player.”

 

Steve chuckles, but it’s watery.

 

“And I was just this...small, mousey little thing. Like you,” she says, “but you’re far more beautiful than I was.”

 

“Not true,” Steve argues. “I’ve seen pictures.”

 

“Okay, okay. I just...didn’t know what he saw in me,” Sarah reasons. “Regardless, he was my muse. My inspiration. I wrote about him, and when we got together, for him.”

 

Steve frowns. “And you haven’t written since he—“

 

“No,” she finishes. “Steve?”

 

“Yeah, ma?”

 

“Draw him while you can.”

 

*

 

“Steve!”

 

“No, Sam, for the last time.”

 

“Steve, _please_  stop being such a square.”

 

“I’m not a square for wanting to stay home instead of getting wasted at some stupid high school party.”

 

Steve spins around in his desk chair, dropping his charcoal on the table before him in frustration.

 

“Steve—“

 

“I will hang up. And block you on all social media platforms. Final warning.”

 

“Steve.” Sam’s voice is soft now. “You’ve been holed up in your room for the entire summer. It’s just a party. You’ve never been to one, right?”

 

Steve hesitates, his resolve weakening. “No...”

 

“Just—man, just come. I could even hook you up with a guy, if you want. A nice one. I’m good at those things,” he argues, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice.

 

“You know I don’t want that.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know, still hung up over the boy next door. D’you even know his name?”

 

Steve sighs, runs his hand over his face. “No.”

 

Sam pauses over the line. “Well, don’t let him get in the way of a good time. Forget about it for one night.” He waits for a response. “Come _on_ , Steve—“

 

“Fine! Fine.”

 

“Yes! Pick you up at 9.”

 

*

 

Steve, for the record, is right about the party. It’s loud, way too loud, and fluorescent: stupid flashing LED’s and party songs and grinding bodies on the dance floor. Well, living room. Huge living room, though, Steve can tell, even with the mass of horny teenagers.

 

Granted, he’s a horny teenager. Not a dancer, though. He tells Sam as much.

 

Sam just smiles wide and claps him on the back. It hurts. “Then let’s get a drink in you, shall we?”

 

*

 

That’s how Steve finds himself sitting alone on a couch, nursing a rum and coke. Sam made it for him, and it isn’t half bad.

 

Speaking of Sam, he’s currently grinding up against Sharon Carter. She’s pretty, way out of Steve’s league, but that’s definitely okay because he isn’t exactly interested in girls.

 

He’s specifically interested in passionate writers with brown hair and pretty eyes.

 

“Hey there, stranger,” someone says, and Steve keeps baby-sipping his drink because they probably weren’t talking to him.

 

Except they nudge Steve’s arm.

 

He turns. His mouth falls open.

 

The boy next door smiles down at him with that pretty smile of his, the one Steve has been drawing in detail for weeks now. He’s so close their knees are touching, and holy _shit_ , his eyes are even prettier up close.

 

“Your eyes are even prettier up close,” Steve whispers.

 

Oh, God.

 

“What?” the boy says, yelling over the music. “This music is so loud, too loud!” He laughs, and it’s literally the best, most wonderful thing Steve has ever heard in his life.

 

“I, um—“ He raises his voice and extends his hand. “I said my name’s Steve!”

 

“Bucky!” Bucky—what a wonderful name—shakes his hand with a firm grasp, so warm and big. “That’s weird, you shake. I like that.”

 

Steve feels his whole face flush. Bucky likes something about Steve. What an amazing thing. Thank you, Sam, thank you, God.

 

“Uh, yeah, guess I’m just...weird like that,” he stutters. He’s so painfully awkward, but Bucky’s laughing again—not at him, but _with_ him, because, as it turns out, when Bucky laughs, it’s impossible for Steve not to laugh as well.

 

Bucky has to lean in closer—the music is louder now—and Steve’s heart jumps. “This is crazy! I didn’t think I’d ever get to meet you.”

 

So, he recognizes Steve. Of course he does—they saw each other just this morning. Rather, Steve sat in front of his window with his supplies and sketched Bucky while he wrote. Shit, that sounds creepy. Oh, no, he probably thinks he’s creepy.

 

Sam. Sam would know what to do, would coach Steve into shape. He glances over at the dance floor, but Sam is nowhere to be seen.

 

Bucky is looking at him expectantly, his smile wavering by the second, and _no_ , Steve wants that smile right back on his face.

 

Everything is happening all at once. The music is too loud, the room has gotten too hot, and Bucky looks concerned by now because Steve hasn’t replied.

 

Sam. He’ll find Sam. Sam will calm him down like he always does, and Steve will come back to the couch and be so _smooth_ that Bucky won’t even know what hit him.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve says, and he starts to get up, but there’s a warm hand on his lower back.

 

“Promise?” Bucky smiles, dimmer now but still so pretty.

 

Steve balls his fists up and wills himself not to kiss him right then and there.

 

Stupid brain.

 

“Promise.”

 

He takes a deep breath before beginning his trek into the wilderness—that is, the dance floor. Steve, of course, is tiny, so it isn’t hard to weave his way through the hoard of bodies. This doesn’t make his experience any less unpleasant. He feels the bass in his chest, throbbing in his ears, and Sam is absolutely nowhere to be found.

 

Unless he’s in one of the bedrooms—though Steve wouldn’t put it past him, with the way Sharon was dancing on him—the only place left is the kitchen.

 

Steve shoves his way through the last of the crowd (“Excuse me! I’m sorry!”) and stumbles onto the kitchen floor.

 

Miraculously empty, save for one guy in a too-tight black t-shirt making himself a drink at the bar.

 

“Woah there, sailor,” he laughs, rushing over to Steve and helping him up. His grip is strong enough to hurt, and he doesn’t let go. “Can I make you a drink?”

 

“Oh—uh, no thanks, I have one.”

 

The guy laughs, low and mean. “You don’t, though.”

 

Steve blinks. Of course, he left it with Bucky. Bucky! He promised to come back.

 

“Must have left it out there.” Steve tries to smile. “I really should go back, I was just looking for my friend.”

 

“Hey, hey, doll, let me make you a new one! Take a shot with me.”

 

Steve frowns. “I should go back,” he repeats.

 

“Aw, come on, just one little shot—“

 

“No, thanks.” Steve tries to turn back into the crowd, but the hold on his arm tightens, and _ow_ , he’s being pushed up against the counter.

 

“A little shot, just a little one, and whatever else you want, cutie.” His voice is low, his breath reeks of beer, and he’s entirely too close.

 

“Let me go,” Steve grits out, squirming in place, but his grasp is unrelenting, tighter and tighter—

 

“Brock!”

 

Steve can’t see past the asshole in front of him, but he recognizes the voice, even after one half-conversation.

 

The guy—Brock— whips his head back and snarls. “Barnes. Didn’t see you there.”

 

Steve can see Bucky now, and he looks...furious. “Let him go.”

 

“You know what? I don’t think I will.” True to his word, his grip on Steve hardens.

 

Bucky (Barnes!) shoves Brock in the back, pushing him further into Steve—which, _ow, again_ —but Brock ends up letting his grip loose, only to whip around and stalk up to Bucky. He pops the bones in his neck on the way.

 

“You really don’t want to do this, do you, James?”

 

Bucky smiles, and although it’s in a wildly different context, Steve’s heart still swells. “Actually, I think I do.”

 

Brock swings, Bucky dodges, his rebuttal hitting Brock right in the jaw.

 

Steve distantly registers the shouts of a gathering crowd.

 

Cute boy? Yes. Cute boy that gets into fights to defend his honor? Yes, _please_.

 

The boy in question rubs his knuckles. Those will surely bruise.

 

His thoughts are cut short when Brock literally _growls_  before punching the side of Bucky’s beautiful face.

 

Steve’s heart falls as Bucky sinks onto his knees.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

Bucky spits on the floor, gets off of his knees, and socks Brock in the nose with a startling _crack_!

 

The crowd cheers behind them, a dull roar in Steve’s ears, and _yep_ , that’s enough.

 

He grabs Bucky’s wrist to find a bathroom.

 

*

 

“I had him on the ropes, you know,” Steve says, almost too softly, as he dabs at the scrape on Bucky’s bruising cheekbone.

 

Bucky smiles—it’s gotta hurt, with that split lip—and scrunches his nose up. “That stings,” he mumbles, “and yeah, I know you did.”

 

“Sorry.” Steve tries to be gentler. He also tries to ignore the way his heart is positively _hammering_  in his chest at their proximity. “You didn’t have to do that for me, is what I mean.”

 

Bucky furrows his brow. “I didn’t like the way he was touching you.”

 

Steve’s throat feels dry. “Thank you,” he replies. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

 

“Had to,” Bucky says. “Learned how to fight the day my step-dad tried to hit my mom for the first time.”

 

Steve’s fingers falter.

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Bucky shrugs, offering a small smile. “Old news. That’s all over now. Me, my mom, and my sister moved a long way, Indianapolis to Brooklyn, when I was thirteen. Few years later, and everything’s pretty great.”

 

Steve dabs at Bucky’s lip. Bucky, Steve notes, has very nice lips.

 

“My ma and I moved from a different place in Brooklyn,” Steve says, taking his time with Bucky’s lip because he really, really doesn’t want this to be over. “Two months ago.”

 

“I remember.” Bucky smiles. Steve blushes. Damn it. “Wanna see the roof?”

 

*

 

Climbing up the fire escape is hard on Steve’s lungs, but with this view (Bucky), it’s more than worth it.

 

“Do you like New York, then?” Steve asks.

 

Steve is so bad at twenty questions.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky replies, looking out at the skyline with an expression Steve can only describe as fond. “I’m finding new things to love every day.”

 

Bucky looks at Steve. Steve looks away from Bucky.

 

“Your turn,” Steve says, around a smile.

 

“Why’d you move?” Bucky asks him.

 

His smile falters a bit. Steve isn’t good at this talk, but he finds that he’s never been so...naturally _comfortable_ around someone.

 

Maybe that’s just Bucky’s friendly disposition.

 

Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own and sends him a small smile. “You okay, Stevie?”

 

_Stevie._

 

Nope, not just his friendly disposition.

 

“Yeah, uh—“ Steve clears his throat. “My dad died when I was ten. Army.”

 

This is when the uncomfortable _Oh_ or _I’m sorry_ usually comes. But Bucky doesn’t say anything.

 

“I don’t remember a lot from back then. I was sick all the time. Like, really sick. My ma’s a nurse, so it coulda been worse, I guess, but—uh. When my dad died, she couldn’t stand being in our old place, so we moved. And moved again. And again. I guess we all grieve differently. But, yeah, three times in seven years. I, um. I don’t really want to move again.” Steve, finished, glances over at Bucky. He doesn’t say anything. “What?” he whispers.

 

“My dad left when I was six,” Bucky says. “Marines.”

 

Steve blinks. Chews on his bottom lip. Feels Bucky’s pinky interlace with his.

 

They breathe in the New York City skyline.

 

Steve’s positive that Bucky can hear how hard his heart beats for him. If he does, he doesn’t mention it.

 

“‘S your turn,” Bucky says.

 

“What do you write about?”

 

Bucky smiles, soft and sweet, and the moment suddenly feels even more intimate than before.

 

Bucky’s looking at him now. Down at his lips. Up at his eyes.

 

He raises an eyebrow in question, something like hope in those gray-blue eyes, and Steve nods. Of course, he nods, he’s never been surer of anything in his life.

 

Bucky’s lips are soft, so soft, and Steve can feel the little divot where his bottom lip is split. He pulls away to press the tip of his finger to that spot, then leans in again because he can’t get enough.

 

He feels Bucky’s smile against his mouth, one that Steve can’t help but mirror, because it’s Bucky, and Bucky is intoxicating.

 

They pull away, though not very far.

 

“You never answered me,” Steve whispers. “What have you been writing about all this time?”

 

He knows the answer.

 

Bucky kisses Steve’s nose. “You.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Traveling for hours is made so much better by good writers. I wanted to dedicate this little thing to a couple of my favorite people on here because they’re making this summer infinitely better with their talent. Thank you so much for inspiring me. 
> 
> Thank you, Lucy Yellow-Submarine Danger Johnson, for your guidance, and amazing text conversations, and face-swaps with Robert Downey Jr. 
> 
> I miss you dearly.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome! Let me know if you hated it!
> 
> royalworldtraveler on tumblr.


End file.
